Four months in England. Under piles of papers, zillion references and numerous application forms, I do not realise how quickly the time has passed. It was supposed to be temporary. It was supposed to be easy. Today I hold twenty-seven pages of the tenancy agreement and walk on the white carpets in my new flat.

I re-accustom to the country where I once lived. I remember it differently though. Now it takes two months to open a bank account and fourteen hours to answer any email. Cheese and onion pastry does not taste like it used to. Curry chips are almost non-existent. Unlike deep fried fish and cream tea. Same old, same old…

Yet, having summer on the horizon accelerates heart beat. After last year’s rainy Norwegian fiords any temperature over twenty degrees Celsius seems tropical. To make sure the cold weather never comes back, I burn my winter hat and make a sacrifice of two new dresses. Touch wood. Fingers crossed. Two magpies and spit over the left shoulder.

It is the evening of the eighth of November two thousand sixteen in San Francisco. The next day the Americans will wake up with the new president. Not the one the majority of Californians dreamt of. Not the one the liberal world was hoping for. The next day, it will be sunny and very quiet on the streets of San Francisco.

On Wednesday afternoon, in a local cafe, the aroma of coffee and disappointment wafts over. My neighbour talks to me about the new reality. She is shocked. She speaks quietly, hoping that someone made a mistake when counting the votes. I tell her about the post-election situation in Poland. We both get a little bit upset. We also laugh. In the end, we decide that, from now on, coffee should be replaced with wine.

My holidays are about to end. I visit Chinatown once again. I cycle across the Golden Gate Bridge. I eat the last fries. I watch the last sunset over the bay. The last time I fall asleep on American soil, hoping that it is not the last time I am here.

It takes one hour and a half to get from Palm Springs to Los Angeles. Another forty minutes to exit the highway. And eternity to find a parking space. The weekend is about to start.

My hostel is situated in a quiet area in downtown. All buildings look the same. There are no signs. No front desks. Nothing to tell the difference between them. In my hostel, however, there is a special area where one can smoke weed. Some of the visitors never go beyond this point.

Saturdays and Sundays are the worst in the city centre. Full of tourists, doppelgangers and trip advisors. People stand in long lines to everywhere. To galleries. To restaurants. To photos. The Walk of Fame makes me tired very soon. I can recognise only twelve percent of the names. After an hour I want to lie down and tear my hair out.

Hollywood is different. Green. Peaceful. Elegant. It is dressed in pastel houses and people with dogs. You cannot hear children, but, surely, they are somewhere there. Cuddled by their Mexican nannies while their Mexican husbands mow the grass and take care of leaves in backyard pools. No one litters. No one screams. No one makes noise. That must be the place where famous LA angels live.

I am just passing through Palm Springs. There are only two places I want to visit: Museum of Architecture and the house of Frank Sinatra. I fail miserably. At both.

First, my GPS confuses Museum of Architecture with Museum of Art. However, a super nice resepcionist convinces me that the exhibition ‘his’ museum offers is much better than the one I intended to see. It calms down my tourist conscience and, after thirty minutes of small talk and another twenty of a guided tour, I am ready to find Frank’s house. Needless to say, unsuccessfully.

There is no one on the streets. My phone apps are useless. The map I have does not help. The building is hiding from the eyes of unwanted visitors (and those who do not want to pay eighty-five dollars for a guide). After nearly an hour of searching, I give up and – with strange sense of fulfillment – I hit the road to Los Angeles.

The next week I start in the middle of the night. I eat breakfast with truck drivers who, like me, want to set off before the morning traffic. Orange juice, coffee, two toasts and… off I go! The receptionist from the motel does not share my enthusiasm.

I am three hundred ninety-six kilometers and thirty Celsius degree away from The Death Valley. On the way there I take off several layers. Five to be precise. Around noon the sun is high above the horizon. The air starts to dance over the asphalt. I feel drowsy, so I pull over to drink coke and take a nap. I cannot sleep a wink. Sugar and caffeine work surprisingly quickly. I continue to drive. There is nothing on the right. There is no one on the left. Just: dirt, dust, hills and valleys. All is still. All is silent. Only roadside mailboxes remind that the world is not over yet. That there are people there. They have bills to pay and mails to answer.

In Yosemite the weather remains unchanged. It pours. The park authorities close the roads (4000 meters above sea-level) because of an upcoming snow storm. Californians wonder whether to leave their houses. They have heard about winter tires, but, in the state related directly to the sun, no one really cares about such rumours.

I spend the afternoon with a bear specialist – ranger Shelton. He is not only a park celebrity, but also a famous YouTuber. I have never heard about him. I do not care. There is nothig else to do. Trails are closed. Paths are muddy. It does not stop raining.

Shelton talks interestingly, but I can remember only few facts. California is home to approximately twenty-eight thousand grizzlies. Most of them are vegetarians. They can smell food from thirty kilometers. I am a little bit worried. I left a banana and a few chocolates in my car. I go back to the parking lot quickly. The car is safe and sound. I eat everything what I have – to foil the scent of my ignorance.

After more than a week in San Francisco, it is time to explore the rest of California. I rent a car and head towards Nevada – to Lake Tahoe. I have no luck with the weather. It rains for two days and the sun gets depressed. I do not want to share its fate. On the second day I get in the car and drive around ‘the great water’. I look out for bears. I sing aloud. I get stuck in traffic. On the way back I buy coffee and a donut. Two, actually. Only pieces of pink icing and colourful sprinkles are left. After a few hours a rainbow shows up. Gold diggers also. They wear huge headphones and rubber pants. They look like astronauts. None of them care about people. None of them care about me. I can watch them for hours.